


Take Off Your Heels

by IsobelSionisFalcone



Category: House of Cards (US TV)
Genre: F/M, Reader Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 13:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10991655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IsobelSionisFalcone/pseuds/IsobelSionisFalcone
Summary: A rewritten ending to Season 1, Ep 4 in which a tipsy reader invites Frank Underwood up to her apartment.





	Take Off Your Heels

**Author's Note:**

> Another micro-fiction for y'all! I have no idea where this came from (other than my love of Francis Underwood). Enjoy!

You can only watch as he peers around your apartment, quirking his eyebrows at the tattered sofa, the frayed lace curtain flapping by the open window and the lack of working lightbulbs. His silence is both unusual and unnerving. You fidget as he strolls towards your bedroom, although he doesn’t cross the threshold, instead leaning forward to inspect the wrinkled sheets and peeling paint.

“Do your parents know you live like this?” he asks, his brow still angled towards his hairline.

“No,” you mutter, clutching at your elbow as you catch sight of the discarded wrappers and cans on the floor. He’s a congressman, for Christ’s sake! Why hadn’t you thought to clean up last week’s midnight fast food feast? “They’ve never visited.”

(They probably didn’t want to, if truth be told.)

The lines in his face that have been formed over years of political experience don’t seem quite so harsh under the dim lamp you’ve managed to turn on. He turns to your bedroom again and back, briefcase still in hand before he asks;

“Have you anyone to take care of you?”

You wonder what patriarchal, sexist tradition he's referring to in your tipsy haze of confusion that had been a rather pleasant feeling when you’d called him from the cab. You don’t know what it is about Frank Underwood that makes you so uncomfortable, yet so darn eager to get into his trousers. You can’t say you’re surprised; he’s got the White House wrapped around his finger and has won your nomination for the country’s most manipulative little fuck on several occasions (you’ve only known him for just under one hundred days), but that voice of his, with the Southern twang that was the only allusion his Gaffney roots, was oddly soothing. You’ve never forgotten the time you met him on the platform just before your train pulled in. The finger he hooked beneath your chin had been far gentler than you’d ever perceived he had the capability to be. You both loathe and love the intense nonchalance in his face and voice. There isn’t another man like him, not in congress, not in America, not on the entire planet.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have an older man to care for you?” he clarifies. You shake your head. “But you’ve been with older men before?” he asks with a smirk that is far from innocent.

“Yes.”

“Then you know that older men will hurt you,” he says, the smirk sliding a little wider as he steps so close that you can smell his cologne. “They will hurt you, then they will discard you.”

You’re getting the impression he’s taking some form of sadistic pleasure from this. His dark green eyes burn with a cold passion and, despite the considerable age difference between you, your heart beats a little faster.

“Consider me disappointed,” you say. 

“And why would that be?”

“I like the pain,” you reply, “but I don’t think you can hurt me.”

His brows dip and the smirk evolves into something more like malicious delight.

“Take off your heels.”


End file.
